


To Be Mourned and To Be Missed

by Cymahibri



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: 2004, After Ludendorff, Other, gta v - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:18:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymahibri/pseuds/Cymahibri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set right after the disaster at Ludendorff in 2004, Trevor is facing the aftermath of Michael's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Mourned and To Be Missed

**Ludendorff, North Yankton, 2004.**

 

_“T, you gotta get outta here!”_

_“Ain’t gonna leave you, Mikey!”_

_“Go!”_

 

In any life threatening situation, there comes a point in time where the adrenaline gets to your head. Your instincts kick in and then, bam! You consign to oblivion. Robotic in your movement and decision making. You’re on total autopilot.

His legs didn’t falter once, he bounded forth with the speed and grace of a young buck, navigating his way through the greying birches with ease. Numbed by his instinct to flee, he felt nothing and thought nothing. His mind spoke but one simple command: run. And run he did. For miles on end, without any real sense of direction. No longer could he hear the blundering footsteps and aimless gunshots of his pursuers. In fact, it had been a good half hour since he’d felt any heat, but that didn’t stop him. He was not going to get fucked over by the feds, not him.

Trevor finally slowed to a stop about three miles west of Ludendorff, in some shit hole of a town. He stood trembling for a while in a small meadow, the adrenaline still throbbing in his veins. The fatigue finally reaching him, his knees buckled and he fell to the snow, his rushing breath blowing tendrils of steam into the dry air. He knew Michael's heart stopped beating a while ago. He knew Brad’s bloodied hands were now cuffed at the small of his back. But he didn’t feel it; the grief. Not yet. He felt only emptiness.

After what seemed to be twenty minutes of just staring at the snow beneath him, Trevor rose to his feet and tried to take in his surroundings.

“Welcome to Rosewall” read a crooked sign, which stood at the front of a derelict church opposite the meadow. Rosewall. Grey and dried up was the only way to describe the town. _A total fucking dead end_ , Trevor thought as he kicked a small stone aside. He wanted to get back home as soon as he could, away from Rosewall, and as far away from Ludendorff as possible. Pacing around the shitty little square of dirt and snow, he tried to clear his head. He hadn’t ever felt so dissociated, so detached; from emotion, from reason, from himself. _C’mon, get your head straight_ , he told himself. _You gotta get out of this fucking town_.

_“T, you gotta get outta here!”_

Trevor winced at the thought of Michael's last words, the stab of grief that ensued crumbling his remaining resolve. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved a wrinkled napkin, his gloved fingers smoothing out the creases. Scrawled clumsily across the napkin was a short note from Michael. Trevor stared at the words and shivered.

 

*  *  *

 

Only a week ago, Michael and Trevor were in Hemsfield for a big bank job. They pulled about 70 grand each, a real decent score. Quick score, too. In the very moment they traipsed in with their semis, cocky and nonchalant as ever, the teller practically tripped over himself to let them into the vault. No big issues with the heat, either. It was probably the best job they'd ever done together. Lester and Brad weren't in on this one though, it was a project that Michael and Trevor wanted to keep to themselves.

That night, they ended up at some grimy dive bar in upper Hemsfield, knocking back shot after shot of cheap whiskey, trying to thaw themselves out a bit.

“Ah, Mikey, ain’t we doing well for ourselves!” Trevor sighed, raising a sloshing beer glass."I never seen such goddamn luck my whole life!" He slung his arm around Michael’s broad shoulders, giving him a slight squeeze.

“Fuckin’ A!” Michael bellowed, clinking his glass of scotch to Trevor's beer. “But it ain't luck, T. I mean, fuck! We’re doing so well that I think we need to move forward, you know, so we don't plateau like most guys 'round here.” Michael slammed his glass onto the table, the remnants of the whiskey flying into the air.“Enough with these two-bit jobs! Enough with the blue collar takes! We’re too good for this shit!”

Trevor withdrew his arm from Michael's shoulders, sobering considerably, and looked him straight in the eye, “What do you mean, Mike?”

“I mean this.” He held a finger up at Trevor, and moved to write something on a stray napkin. It was passed to him across the bar, Michael sliding the napkin towards Trevor with a bright gleam in his eyes. “I think we’re ready for the Big One, T.” it read.

_The fucking Big One._

Trevor shook his head violently with a furious growl, reentering the present.

“You said you wanted to move onto bigger scores, Mikey!”, he roared at the sky. “You said we were ready for the Big One! And look where your ambitions got you! Jesus fuck, you're probably six feet under by now! We couldn’t even handle a bit of fucking heat!" Trevor's fury was quickly replaced with despair, his heavy heart sinking to his stomach.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now, M?" Trevor asked the snow beneath him, his voice breaking slightly.

 

As he headed north, Trevor let the note fall - his last piece of Michael - from his listless fingers, and onto the dirty snow.


End file.
